


long pork

by elijah_was_a_prophet



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Human Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22932787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elijah_was_a_prophet/pseuds/elijah_was_a_prophet
Summary: A no-trade clause is a mercy.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18
Collections: The Sin Bin: A Hockey RPF Kink Meme





	long pork

**Author's Note:**

> https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3088.html?thread=3084304
> 
> This was written before Simmonds got traded.

“You know we have to do this,” Blackwood says before he hits Andy Greene in the back of the head with a lead pipe.

The ice in the Prudential Center is surrounded by candles. Blackwood and Schneider whet their knives. Their rasp is barely audible over white noise that’s blaring over the rink speakers. Simmonds and Palmeri swing censers of incense on either side of the sacrificial table. Subban holds Greene’s feet to the table while Gusev ties them. There’s no point in fighting, but Green struggles anyways as if it will save him. Up in the press box there’s the shadow of wings. Sacrifice is nothing without a higher power, after all.

“He woke up,” Simmonds says. “Mac, you were supposed to keep him knocked out.”

“I’m fine.” Greene closes his eyes and breathes deeply of the smoke-tinged air. “I just thought I might retire here. That’s all.”

“Management had us make your copy at the beginning of the year. Just in case, they said.” 

Zajac pulls the drape off a table laying next to Greene’s. The wax form is expertly made. It has Greene’s balding scalp and sloped shoulders. Zajac, craftsman that he is, has even etched fine lines along its lips and eyes. He’s guaranteed to make it out of Jersey alive. 

“You did good.”

Zajac bows his head at the compliment. “They said if I made it they’d give me a no movement clause.”

“I don’t blame you. No hard feelings. Where’s the rookie?”

“With Hischier in the locker room. He doesn’t know yet.”

A bell sounds from high up in the rafters. More members of the team- Mueller, Anderson, Hayden, Butcher, Rooney, Wood- all come out in black robes. There are the jars, and the tubs of salt, and the cord they will strangle Greene with. Hischier skates out holding Hughes’ hand. He’s never gotten to eat, but only the youngest can benefit from the sacrifice.

“Andy?”

“Hey, kid. They didn’t mention this part during training camp, but it’s very important.”

“Nico says I have to eat your heart.”

“We didn’t tie him up for nothing.” Blackwood lays his knife against Greene’s sternum. “It’s easy. Schneider and I will cut him open, and then you’ll eat his heart, and we’ll make playoffs.”

“It’s the only option,” Schneider adds. He’s wrapping the cord around Greene’s neck, handing one end to Mueller and the other to Hayden. They each begin to pull. The pressure cuts across Greene’s windpipe and into his carotid, turning him red. He can no more pull from his bindings than a cow in stocks. Gusev and Subban keep Greene from kicking, their arms popping with veins from the strain. When the struggle stops then the cutting begins.

Hughes goes pale at the first bead of blood when Blackwood sinks in the knife.

“You’ve got a lot worse coming,” Subban tells Hughes. “But you’ll be fine.”

“He was being traded-”

“That’s why Zajac made the dummy. Feed it a little bit of the real Greene’s blood and it’ll spring to life. I saw a lot worse in Montreal, trust me.”

“Flyers are just as bad.” Simmonds lets his censer fall to the ice and steps up to where Blackwood is making a cut down the corpse’s midline. “I’ve seen some nasty shit done stopping injuries. Did some nasty shit to keep going.”

“Jack.” Blackwood holds up the wet shiny heart. “It’s for you.”

Outside of the body it seems pathetically small. Hughes, mouth dripping with bile and spit, puts it to his lips and then jerks away. “Shouldn’t Nico get a bite?”

“Nah, I’m good.” That makes the entire congregation laugh.

Hughes tries again with his eyes closed. When he bites blood leaks from the severed arteries and veins, dribbling down his wrists and onto the ice. It stains his mouth and the sleeves of his jersey as he continues to eat. 

“Salty,” he says. “Tough.”

“Most hearts are.” 

White and Anderson dry and wrap snaky intestines, then drop them in a tub of salt. They’ll be buried on the west side of the arena. Lungs go to the north, stomach to the east, and liver to the south. What remains will be packed into a stone jar and taken to Mount Pleasant. There’s watchmen there who know how to keep secrets (and who take hockey tickets as bribes.)

“Do I need to say anything?” Hughes asks when he’s done, wiping blood on the hem of his jersey.

“Your part is done.”

“I don’t feel any different.”

“You won’t, yet. It takes time to settle under your skin. Most magic does.”

Wayne pulls his sleeve up to show a long glyph. “I got that in ‘08. Didn’t kick in until last year. Never know when a sacrifice will come in handy.”

“What happened?”

“Nashville.” 

Besides him PK nods. “Nashville,” he parrots.

“Arizona’s pretty nice,” Merkley grumbles while trying to fit the liver in a jar. “Aside from the scorpion room. And the snake room.”

“They’re all nasty.”

“Fucking right they are. And it’s all for the Cup.”

“For the Cup.”

“For the Cup.”

Zajac takes one of the used knives and touches it to the wax model’s mouth, angling it so drops of blood flow between its parted lips. It blinks, then breathes.

“Good enough for Florida.” He turns behind him in aiding the goalies with the carving. Gusev has the charcoal grill heated up and a bicep already cooking. Someone brings out paper plates and barbeque sauce. 

“Who’s on burial?”

“Goose’s doing the arena with Kyle. Nico, you take the kid to the graveyard.”

“I’m eating,” he grunts around a mouthful of meat. “Lemme finish and then we’ll go.”

Beer is brought out after the first round of steaks hit the plate. They drink on the bench and eat heavily. There’s three and a half pounds of flesh for every man, more when Zajac and the goalies quit eating early to pack the remains into their final resting place. They drop a puck in the jar alongside the skin and bones and leftover viscera, and Greene’s favorite gloves, and a handful of change.

“Vending machine money,” Zajac explains to Hughes. “Keeps the ghost inside.”

The jar is stuck in the bed of someone’s pickup and covered with a tarp. Hughes gets shotgun, but Hischier gets radio privileges. Early in the morning the only thing on besides music is the Coast to Coast AM radio show.

“Players would have so much material if they ever called in.” Hischier drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Wayne told me about what happens in Philadelphia. Less death, more pain. You’d have gotten the Rangers and their blood games.”

Hughes stays silent. There’s blood dried under his nose and in the creases of his nails. He licks his lips, opens them to speak, then cuts himself off with a groan.

“Stop the car, I’m going to puke.” 

Hischier pulls over and watches him violently vomit onto the side of the road. “Feel better?” 

“No. I can still taste him.” 

“You always will.”


End file.
